Harry Potter and the FaceChangers
by grammar conscious possum
Summary: After the events of Harry Potter and the Diabolical Directorate, the Weasley twins are in trouble again: this time with the US government, by way of the Federal Aurors' Agency. Can Harry Potter sort things out and make a profit at the same time?


**Harry Potter and the FaceChangers**

Authored by Tom of Grammar-Conscious Possum (and obviously not claiming ownership of any of JKR's property and so on, although I think we can stake a fair claim to WeasCorp Inc!) You may want to read _Harry Potter and the Diabolical Directorate_ before you read this. Then again, you may not. Enjoy!

* * *

It was an eerie experience for Harry, rattling along in the luggage compartment in the empty train through the dark wet Scottish glens.

Before, it had always been the beginning of term, with all its terrors and excitement, but now it was a long, dreary, solitary journey in the Hogwart' weekly supply train, without even the comfort of a passenger compartment. It lacked a lavatory as well; however this was not a bad thing, given the magical vandalism, unprintable grafitti and creative pranks adolescents felt obliged to commit in one when available.

He missed the excitement of meeting his old friends again, of crossing swords with Malfoy and his evil minions, of feeling his adolescent hormones leap into action at the sight of one or other of the girls.

Now he passed a twittering cage of replacement house elves without comment. McGonagall must be working the tedious little pests to death, he thought without much interest.

He raised an eyebrow at a massive bale of sheets which seemed to fill a full quarter of the carriage. Voldemort's reign of terror was sparking off another deluge of bed wetting amongst the first and second years, he speculated.

He sat on his overnight bag and read McGonagall's letter again.

"Please come and see me at once," she had written, and given the times of the supply trains.

He had welcomed the opportunity to re-enter wizard society. He had been living a very muggle lifestyle, with a flat in London, a series of failed muggle careers, and little contact with his Hogwarts classmates. Hermoine still emailed every week from college in the US, but Ron had dropped out of sight.

Hagrid met him at the station and insisted on carrying his bag up to the college. Even he had not been in touch much, since marrying a troll and having sextuplets. They conversed awkwardly for a while, then Hagrid left him at the main door.

Hogwarts was empty for mid-term, except for the occasional orphan wandering forlornly around. Harry looked about. The hall had not changed at all, he decided, then he scowled at the sight of the "Quidditch Honour Board". His name was still there, but heavily scored through.

"Harry, how good to see you again."

It was McGonagall. She had not aged a day, still looking about a hundred and twenty years old. She shook his hand enthusiastically and asked him how he was doing. She noticed him looking at the Quidditch Board.

"It was a shame that your career in professional Quidditch came to such an unhappy end."

He grunted, red faced.

"You should have expected them to test for illegal performance enhancing potions, especially when you caught the Golden Snitch in two point six seconds in the European Cup. How long was the ban for?"

"Five years," he snarled.

"Oh, well, that's all water under the bridge. There is someone here I would like you to meet."

She led him into a comfortable study and left him standing in front of the fire, looking out the window at the lake.

"Mr. Potter?"

It was another ancient crone, XXXX size, one who made McGonagall look positively pubescent, with a humped back, a hooked nose and matching chin, and a grating upper-class accent that could take paint off a barbed wire fence.

"Yes?"

"Good, good. I am Theodora Nursepimple. Dear Albus asked me to take a look at you before…well, I asked Minerva to arrange a meeting."

She sat at the table, taking some time to fit her nether regions into her chair, waved a wand and produced two lattes and a plate of bagels, and indicated that he sit.

"You see, I am Acting Head of the Aurors since poor Leopold found himself outnumbered by Death Eaters at the Green Day concert. Albus had recommended you to us, but we have only now got around to considering your suitability."

Harry nodded, suddenly excited. It had been impossible to apply to be an Auror without a double first in Advanced Magic, but the standards had been dropped since the crisis began. Possibly, Harry thought grimly, the two pages of Auror obituaries in the paper after Voldemort's last outing might be a factor.

Still, he had always wanted to be one, even if he had to work for this terrifying old besom. It would give him another chance to get at the Dark Lord and his lackeys.

"Is everything all right?" Harry jumped. McGonagall had poked her head around the door.

Nursepimple smiled, a terrifying sight. "Yes, I think Harry will be joining us as a trainee shortly."

Minerva beamed. "Is that true?"

Harry stammered, "Yes, Miss Nursepimple has asked me to become an aurochs."

McGonagal waved a finger, "Please Harry, you must use the correct term "auror". Miss Nursepimple is an auror, not an aurochs. An aurochs was a kind of prehistoric cow."

And possibly a more accurate term for her, he thought grimly, as the two witches ushered him towards the fireplace.

"Where are we going? Are we going after Voldemort?" he asked, feeling for his wand, as Nursepimple opened a new tin of Floo powder with a chisel.

"Not yet. You will be learning on the job, but on minor cases at first. This first one, however, is quite serious and you may find it a little upsetting. We have air freighted a fireplace to LA, as we do not have a budget for Muggle airplanes and a broomstick would be too uncomfortable at this time of year. Please follow me."

In many cities the sight of a young man and an aged crone staggering from a fireplace propped up in the middle of a street might have aroused comment. In LA, some passers-by merely paused to check that their clothing was not in the colours of a rival gang before re-holstering their weapons, while others gazed on admiringly and resolved to compliment their dealer on the strength of his product.

Harry stopped at an ATM for some dollars. He had opened a muggle bank account as well as a Gringotts one. One reason was he had made a lot of money by selling out his Weasley shares at the top of the market, and Gringotts were running out of room; for another, he liked the convenience of muggle banks.

Gringotts were trying to modernise, but with mixed results. He had tried their first ATM in Diagon Alley, and the horror of the experience was still with him.

* * *

For a start, it _really _was a hole in the wall. And, as always with ATMs, it was surrounded by suspicious looking lowlifes. 

Harry had no choice, needing money while the bank was shut, so he had bent and looked in the hole. He immediately recoiled, as a monstrous bloodshot eye was staring at him from an inch away.

An aged elf shouted at him, "Who are you?"

"Harry Potter."

"Mary Porter?"

"HARRY POTTER."

"What do you want?"

"Twenty Galleons."

"What?"

"TWENTY GALLEONS."

He looked around. The lowlifes were closer now, but instantly caught his gaze, jumped back and feigned disinterest.

"What's yer secret code?"

"Four, two, nine, four," Harry whispered.

"What?"

"Four, two, nine, four," Harry said, louder.

"What?"

"FOUR-TWO-NINE-FOUR" Harry bellowed, and peered into the hole.

"There's no need to shout," the elf said querulously, and consulted an enormous ledger.

Harry looked around. The lowlifes had gathered within arm's length, simultaneously moving back once more at his angry stare.

"You have one million, six hundred and sixty five thousand, four hundred and thirteen Galleons in this account. How much do you want?"  
Ignoring the astonished muttering behind him, Harry gritted his teeth and shouted, "Twenty galleons."

"Do you want a receipt?"

"YES"

He bent to look into the hole and was hit in the face by a bundle of coins wrapped in a newly inked parchment.

He grabbed the money and strode off rapidly, turned a corner, stopped and looked back. The lowlifes gathered in a huddle, then one of them bent to the ATM.

"Oi, I want fifty galleons."

"Who are you?"

The figure bent lower. "Harry Potter."

"No yer not," came a voice, and a long narrow finger poked the lowlife in the eye.

Listening to the scream of pain and feeling slightly happier about Gringotts security Harry moved on, inwardly resolving not to use Gringotts ATMs again.

* * *

Now, curious about the US, Harry sat and looked about as a cab took them to a tree lined square and parked in front of an impressive building. 

Nursepimple paid the cab fare, with the minimum possible tip, leading to vile swearing in Azerbaijanian, and led Harry in.

The foyer was enormous, full of figures in wizard robes or dark business suits, bustling around, often walking across the enormous eagle depicted on the marble floor, clutching a wand and with the letters _FAA_ written on a scroll beneath his feet.

"Federal Auror Agency, follow me," Nursepimple hissed.

They waited at reception for a few moments, then an exceptionally rotund robed wizard arrived, followed by a young woman in a dark jumpsuit and combat boots.

"Theodora. And this must be Mr. Potter."

He smiled. "Welcome to the FAA, Hank."

He looked around. "I am Chief Lester Tharbold, and this is special agent Laetita Voldmurt."

Harry jumped.

Voldmurt eyed him grimly, waiting for a comment about her name.

He swallowed. "Pleased to meet you."

"Now Agent Voldmurt will get you equipped while Theodora briefs me on the current situation in England."

In a large cellar Laetita and two massive, gum chewing officers stood by while Harry was issued with boots and uniforms similar to theirs. One of them buckled an enormous gun belt around his waist, with the immediate consequence that his trousers fell down. Embarrassed, he pulled them up and buckled the belt tighter.

"What the hell is on this damn belt?" he complained, red-faced.

"40 mm Glock, three spare clips, handcuffs, night stick, radio, wand holster, make-up kit."

"Make-up kit?"

"We're not far from Hollywood here. You never know when you might have an opportunity to impress a director."

Upstairs again, Harry walking sideways under the weight of all the hardware, they were met by Lester.

"Ah, Hank, you are looking very well. Here is your badge, and you are ready for your first mission."

He spat his chewing gum on the floor, and instantly four elves ran out of a concealed doorway and began scrubbing the floor furiously. They were dressed in the ragged remains of a "Grateful Dead" t-shirt, but all wore tiny, highly polished guns.

* * *

The van screeched through the streets at some insane speed, siren howling. 

Harry, now in a baseball cap marked "Auror" and a spell-proof vest, was crammed in the back between two machine-gun bearing goons, opposite Laetita who was stuck between an identical pair.

He looked at his badge, "Hey, this says I am an "Ordinary Agent". Why can't it say "Special Agent", like yours?"

He pouted.

She looked a bit shifty, "Well, since you are the only ordinary agent in the whole organisation, that makes you kind of special, see?"

Before he could reply the van screeched to a halt, door bursting open.

"Go, go, go, go!"

The first two goons leaped out and knelt, covering the street with their weapons. The second pair took their positions, backs to the wall, each side of the doors of the building before them, and Harry and Laetita burst through the doors.

Harry was reaching for his wand when Laetita handed him a parchment. He looked at it, understood their mission, and returned his wand to its holster.

* * *

Back at the office, he said, "It still seems like a lot of fuss and bother just to buy some donuts," taking a draught from his pint mug of double decaffeinated latte, and brushing sugar from around his mouth. "Why all the guns and shouting?" 

Laetita frowned. As far as she was concerned the only criticism she liked of her country was fulsome praise. "It's the American Way."

Her pager beeped. "Time to go to the briefing room."

Lester and Nursepimple were there, Lester standing by a whiteboard, with about twenty other wizards in combat gear.

Harry sat by Nursepimple, "What news of Voldemort?"

"Since his experience in the world of finance, he has taken a strong dislike to the finance industry, especially insurance," she whispered. "Do you remember the plague of frogs in the stock exchange? They weren't frogs, they were former stockbrokers. And, call me suspicious but all the latest typhoons and earthquakes have all been in heavily insured places. I mean, how many typhoons can you get in one week in Wall Street?"

Suddenly a heavy loose leaf folder was placed before him.

Harry read the cover and his heart fell.

"The Weasley Clinic Investigation."

The Weasley twins had disappeared after the takeover of Weascorp. Lord Voldemort had been outwitted by a syndicate of finance and insurance corporations. His fundamentally evil instincts had been no match for their experience, and the board had been sacked. He had disappeared since then, as had the twins.

Harry riffled through the folder.

A photo of the President, looking untrustworthy, twenty pages of legals removing any liability for the accuracy of the contents, some ads from the sponsors, and finally a review of the operations of the Weasley Clinic.

His spirits did not improve. There had been a long tradition of using mild spells to create disguises for Halloween parties in Hogwarts, and the twins had adapted these to take on the American cosmetic surgery market. Now the Aurors were about to raid the clinic and shut it down.

Lester explained this in mind-numbing detail, using a Powerpoint presentation, maps, and forty-three handouts.

Harry put up his hand. "Are you sure that what they are doing is illegal?"

Lester looked awkward. "We have the legal opinion that several, um, minor state ordinances are being broken."

Nursepimple elbowed him and whispered in his ear, "The cosmetic surgery industry is now the second biggest contributor to the governing party, ahead of the gun lobby and just behind the tobacco industry. What they say goes."

Lester stared at her until she went silent, then went on, "Teams Alpha to Delta will go in by helicopter, supported by gunships Echo and Foxtrot. Meanwhile armoured vehicles will breach the perimeter at points Mike, November, Oscar and …You have a question Hank?"

This last bit in a strained tone.

Harry stood up, red faced with rage, his scar throbbing.

"You must be crazy. You are raiding a clinic, not a terrorist stronghold. Let me go in first and talk to them."

His hand was on his wand and everyone went silent. All kinds of terrifying rumours had circulated about this limey wizard who had beaten the Dark Lord again and again, and of the impressive bloodbaths that accompanied each defeat..

Lester swallowed. "What would you suggest, Hank?"

* * *

"I don't need you come with me," Harry complained, as Laetitia drove the two of them towards the entrance of the clinic in her battered Honda. "This is a simple job." 

"Orders are orders, Hank, and anyway I know the territory."

"OK, stop the car."

"Huh?"

She saw his wand come out and opened her mouth, but too late.

Some Latin words under his breath, a wave of his wand, a great flash of light, and she reeled back, stunned.

The Honda was now a garish stretch limo, and the uniformed Laetitia had become a scantily dressed starlet, staggering under a kilo of make-up.

Harry himself was in the guise of a Hollywood agent, with a garish designer suit, a bad wig, and a cigar.

"Sorry, Babe," he drawled. "If we want to infiltrate a facelift clinic we gotta look the part."

She pouted angrily and wobbled towards the back of the limo to see if she could find some cocaine. Harry's magic had not extended that far in creating an authentic limo, so she turned on three of the TV's to MTV, the Disney Channel and the Bulgarian Music Channel and sat sulkily on the couch.

Harry drove them towards the main gate. The security was frightening, with machine gun towers, high steel fences topped by ribbon wire, heavily armed guards with automatic weapons and salivating dogs.

He rolled down the window, but the guards just waved him though.

"That was easy," he shouted twenty feet back at Laetita.

"What?"

"I said, that was easy."

"The guards are only there to keep out the paparazzi. And the poor of course, it is after all a _private _hospital."

A valet parking attendant took the limo away. Harry looked at his watch and smiled. The attendant would get something of a shock in precisely two minutes when the spell wore off.

The door attendant swept the ornate main doors open and they went through into a huge marble foyer. An attendant immediately helped Laetita into a wheelchair. It was standard clinic policy, and anyway she had already fallen off her unfamiliar four-inch heels twice.

Harry looked around.

White-clothed attendants swept dressing gown clad patients around in wheelchairs, and recovering patients in designer dressing gowns ambled past expensive shops.

He approached the counter, ignoring the protests of Laetita who was been wheeled away to some remote reception area.

"I need to see the Weasley twins, NOW. It is urgent. Tell them it is Harry Potter."

"I am sorry sir, they do not…."

He handed her a business card, "Max Gross, agent, say, did you ever consider a career in the movies?"  
She beamed at him and reached for the phone.

Shortly afterwards, he was ushered into a luxurious penthouse where the three brothers met him, faces nervous.

"Hi Harry," began Ron. "If this is about WeaslyCorp…"

"No, that's water under the bridge."

He looked down at his outfit, waved his wand, his Hollywood outfit disappeared, the wig melted away and his FAA uniform reappeared, gun belt, spell-proof vest and all.

He waved his badge under their noses, a finger covering the word "Ordinary".

"I'm working with the Aurors here in the US."

They gasped and went pale. The FAA were worse even than the INS or even IRS, and could send them to the US equivalent of Azkaban, or worse, pull their green cards.

He looked around for Laetitia.

"Anyone see the girl I came in with?"

"What happened to her?"

"Someone wheeled her off in a wheelchair."

Ron raced for the lift. "Bloody hell, I'll go get her."

He sat down opposite the twins, "The US cosmetic surgeons are very upset that you are taking their business. You have been lucky to avoid a full scale auror raid."

"Harry, we are doing nothing illegal. And our magic stuff is much less painful than the surgical kind. Let me show you around."

Fred led him downstairs, through treatment rooms, resting areas, all immaculate and professional looking. He was impressed.

After a while Harry sniffed, "Is someone cooking chips?"

Fred shook his head, "Almost all of our magic is to do with moving fat from one part of the body to another, and there is inevitably some amount of leakage."

"Listen, they are going to shut you down one way or another. Do you want me to negotiate for you and try and cut a deal?"

Fred shrugged. "OK."

He led Harry back to the lifts, past Ron who was doing his best to console a weeping Laetitia, a Laetita who had one enormous bosom and one tiny one, and half her face lifted.

"It is always a mistake to stop a procedure before it is complete," Fred confided, as he ushered Harry into a conference room.

* * *

Three hours later Harry, Fred and George came out and made for the decanter cupboard. 

"Not a bad deal, in the end. The FAA will take over the clinic and use it for research into disguises for their agents and witness protection programs. You guys get a handsome settlement."

"And you get 25."

Harry shrugged. "Business is business." The bad wig might be gone, but the Hollywood agent spell had obviously not fully worn off.

"And all our procedures have to automatically reverse in exactly seven days?"

"Something bothers me about that," Harry commented. "But I am not sure exactly what. Anyway, nice doing business with you guys again."

Ron was waiting with Laetitia in the foyer, a much happier Laetitia who appeared to fill her upper garments to a more marked extent than formerly, and the Weasleys waved them off after the slightly stunned attendant brought out the ancient Honda.

A week later, Harry was sitting in front of his TV with a can of beer and some nuts. He flicked through the channels, settling at last on the Academy Awards, where a shapely creature was receiving the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. Through her tears Harry noticed a trace of unease developing, and he leaned forward with interest.

The upper part of her body appeared to be shrinking, while the region about her hips began growing at rather a drastic rate. Sizeable tufts of hair began to grow under her arms and on her upper lip. Her eyebrows converged to form a single, caterpillar-like unit, creating a suggestion of someone looking from under an unshorn black sheep.

The camera panned in delightedly, then ran over the audience where numerous other body-changing events were happening, before returning to see her dress spilt in two at the waist, and fall to the ground.

Covering her now modest cleavage she ran for the wings, swearing foully, as among the glitzy audience faces fell, noses became surprisingly extended, brassieres became unnecessary and waistlines expanded like balloons. Sarah Jessica Barker ran screaming for an exit as her chin resumed its awesome former dimensions. Calista Flockhead grew to the dimensions of a sumo wrestler as her weight control spell reversed.

As the programme stopped abruptly for an unscheduled advertisement break, Harry watched entranced. Suddenly his phone rang.

Absent-mindedly he picked it up, only to hear Laetitia's voice.

"HANK POTTER!"


End file.
